


Not Like This

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 04:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17175620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: For a cut, Jeremy joins a team tasked with preventing a money laundering operation that finances human trafficking. But… Well, best laid plans, and so on.[I can’t tell you what AU this is, because that would spoil it.Please study the tags and warnings. Commentary is in the end notes.]





	Not Like This

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]

 

“So I’m sitting there,” Jeremy says, as Michael wipes tears out of his eyes across the table, “thinking, ‘how many times am I gonna have to be the dog bait?’ The barbecue sauce is starting to get sticky and it’s _really cold_ without a shirt in New York in winter. I mean, like, _super_ cold.”

“But did you manage to lead them away?” laughs Jack, leaning forwards in his chair.

Jeremy leans back. Spreads his arms over the back of his chair. Open and confident as can be. “‘Course I did,” he says easily, “cleared the barbed wire fence without a scratch, didn’t I? Stood on the other side watching them trying to chew their way through. It was great.”

He sneaks a little glance towards Haywood.

Haywood winks.

Jeremy’s life has, once again, brought him into the company of dangerous strangers - but the main difference he’s seeing right off the bat is that they’re _fun_. It’s a welcome change. Some mercenaries, government-affiliated or not, are completely committed to the dark and gritty aesthetic. No matter how just or good or valiant their cause. So it’s nice to be able to joke around and swap stories with these people.

God knows the laughs won’t come easy tomorrow.

“So what about you, Haywood?” he asks. “What’s your story?”

“Yeah, Ryan,” says Gavin, counting on his fingers, “Jeremy’s marines, Geoff and Michael are army, I’m Secret Intelligence Service and Jack’s Special Ops. Where do you come from?”

“Special ops too,” Haywood says, smirking. He keeps flickering his gaze away to include the others, but he always comes to rest on Jeremy as a default. “I’ve never been _special_ Special Ops, though. Not like this.”

 

* * *

 

_“They got him! They got him, just run--”_

* * *

 

Two days before the story-swap in the breakfast bar, Jeremy meets up with the team in a dingy warehouse on the far side of town. It’s the first time all of them have been in the same room. He knows he was selected for his eye for detail, and it’s the kind of skill that comes in handy in situations such as these; the whole team are laid out in front of him like blueprints.

Gavin Free. Jeremy can never remember whether it’s MI5 or MI6 that’s the foreign security one, but it’s one of those that Gavin’s previously been tangled with. Or may possibly _still_ be tangled with, who knows. He seems to approach everything with steely cheer, in that he clearly enjoys doing a good job with whatever’s he’s been tasked to do.

Geoff Ramsey is ex-military and it shows in everything he isn’t. Jeremy thinks this might be his one last job before throwing in the towel. Ramsey enjoys his peace and quiet, howls with laughter like a coyote when something stupid tickles him, and is one of the few soldiers Jeremy’s met who isn’t afraid to be a little touchy with his acquaintances. Amongst army, this is what bravery looks like.

Tucked in Michael Jones’s wallet, behind a stack of twenties, is a picture of a beautiful woman with gorgeous hair and a bright smile full of mischief. He mirrors it unconsciously sometimes - especially if Gavin says something particularly dumb.

He also likes scratching symbols and lines into the tables with a sweetass pocket knife. (Geoff demands a go whilst they’re waiting for everyone, and carves the world’s lumpiest cock into a desk.)

Jack Pattillo. A giant of a man with impeccable aim, whether it’s marksmanship or tossing a screwed-up napkin into the trash from across a diner. He’s loyal without making a show of it, but Jeremy wonders if there’s a red-hot temper inside him somewhere, packed down within him volcanically.

And Haywood.

‘Agent Haywood’ is how he’d introduced himself, but it was maybe Geoff who let slip his first name. Ryan called everyone by their last name until they corrected him, with the sole exception of Jeremy (who didn’t bother, because he quite likes the sound of ‘Haywood’ and ‘Dooley’ together). His posture is impeccable, he doesn’t quite see the fact that more than one waitress has flirted with him during meet-ups, and his smile is so goddamn attractive and secretive. The best moments are definitely when he gets flustered and flushed. No-one needs to know that Jeremy thinks that, though.

“So we’ve got three teams of two, and you’re not allowed to let your partner out of your sight,” Geoff says. “I’ll be with Jack on Team OG, because I trust that fucker with my life and I don’t want to extend that courtesy to you assholes.”

Jack nods, looking pleased. Fair enough.

“Michael, Gavin, you’re Team Play Pals.”

“What?!” Gavin squawks. His chair screeches against the concrete. “Geoff, _no_ , that sounds like we’re fiddling with each other’s knobs--”

“ _Team Play Pals_ ,” Geoff reiterates, his voice cracking halfway through. “No arguments, that’s what was decided.”

Gavin crosses his arms and mutters _frassin-rassin_ s to himself. He’s doing a great job of looking displeased about it until Michael leans over to touch his arm and say something under his breath into his ear, at which he can’t help but explode into snorting.

“That leaves Jeremy and Ryan--”

Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.

“--who are Team Battle Buddies.”

“ _Come on!_ ” Gavin shrieks, standing up. Jack pulls him back into his seat by a handful of hoodie.

Jeremy turns to see Haywood already staring at him. “Hey, Dooley,” he says quietly, “we lucked out with the cool name.”

“You know it,” Jeremy grins, “it’s got a living legend vibe.”

“Battle Buddies.” He tries it, visibly rolling the phrase around his mouth. “Terror of Texas. Sounds good to me.”

“Everyone’ll know the name. Like Keyser Söze in _The Usual Suspects_.”

“Gavin,” Michael says, shouting over everyone else, “can you shut the fuck up for five fuckin’ minutes? Just take the Playps and run with it, Christ!”

“Shut the fuck up!” screeches Geoff, waving his arms like he’s trying to physically dispel the argument. “Shut up! Siddown and shut up, all of you, I gotta explain how this is gonna go. Jesus Christ, guys, I’m gonna fucking shoot one of y’all--”

It takes a further five minutes to wrangle everyone back on topic, in which Haywood edges his chair closer to Jeremy and amicably nudges his shoulder.

Jeremy nudges back. He can’t hold back his smile.

“So,” says Jack. He’s the only one on his feet. “This is a pretty special mission, and we’ve gotta make sure it goes off without a hitch. I’m sure all of you have heard of the Kent Cardinals.”

Jeremy sucks in a breath: “yep,” he says, “they came from Boston originally, right?”

“You’d know, New England,” says Michael.

Gavin huffs. “Looks like they fancied some sun.”

“You’re fucking right they did. Came all the way down here, they’ve got a secret compound somewhere, and they’re trafficking people into the States. The Cardinals are financing this with some _serious_ money laundering. I mean a _huge_ operation. Our job is to stop the laundering, which should stop the illegal trafficking - the task we’ve been given is to put a stop to it by infiltrating the compound at any cost.”

“Compound?” asks Michael.

“Yep. Top secret hideout, it’s a real effective front too - as in, we only just found out where it was, after an eleven year mission to uncover it. They’re good. Almost _too_ good.”

“No good enough that we can’t get them, though,” mumbles Geoff. His hands are tight fists.

Jack grins. “We have compound blueprints, and we have strict instructions. Get in there and take everyone down - alive or otherwise for the staff, and definitely alive for anyone who’s been smuggled into the country. After that, we get our cut.”

Over on the other side of the warehouse, he’s pre-prepared a spread of maps and diagrams over several tables, ready for everyone to gather around them. The six of them crowd, palms flat on the surfaces, and squint at the lines and scrawls. It all looks very complicated - but not too bad that Jeremy can’t follow, because he’s good at this drawing shit, goddamnit.

Effectively, the plan is sneaking in through a security breach that previous special ops teams uncovered, then either disposing or incapacitating of the Kent Cardinal members and rounding up the people in the compound who aren’t American citizens to be processed properly by USCIS. They’re financing their own mission with whatever ‘proceeds’ they can vacuum up during the assignment.

“So it’s a stealth mission?” Michael asks.

A grave nod. _Stealth_. A nasty little silence settles over the group.

Geoff chews his lip, and is possibly regretting his choice of team selections.

It breaks like glass:

“I can do stealthy,” Jeremy says, and shares a look with Haywood. It’s full of empty meaning, but the man nods, as though he understands entirely.

 

* * *

 

_“Where the fuck is Michael?!”_

_“He’s probably back at the warehouse, let’s go already!”_

* * *

 

“What would you do with your cut?”

“Hm?”

“Your cut. Of the payment. I heard Team Play Pals chatting about it.”

They’re sat in an inconspicuous sedan with the windows rolled down, waiting for Geoff to finish scoping Main Street. There are useful side alleys and shortcuts littered all over, and it’s the kind of thing that might save their skin in a pinch. Jeremy jabs his elbow out of the passenger door and enjoys the sensation of hot sunlight searing his skin.

“Hm,” says Haywood again, considering it. “I… I don’t know.”

“You haven’t thought about it?” Jeremy laughs incredulously, “Christ, Haywood, I haven’t been able to _stop_ thinking about it. I can’t wait.”

“I guess I’d buy… a car. A _nice_ car,” he finally decides.

A metal _clang_ echoes out as Jeremy slaps the outer frame: “what, this not good enough for ya?”

“Not like this,” Haywood laughs, “not like this. Something nicer.”

A comfortable silence layers itself over the dashboard like pollen. A block down, Jeremy fixates on an ice cream store front, and thinks of the gelato he could get in Boston that he can’t quite find anywhere else.

“Why,” his partner suddenly pipes up, “what would you get?”

“A nice place far away from here,” Jeremy says, without a moment’s hesitation. “Somewhere that’s not Texas or New England or America at all, somewhere more stable and less hot-headed. I’m tired of everything being so intense all the time.”

“Germany’s nice. Wales is quiet. Hell, you could ask Gavin about England, I bet some area there isn’t fighting with itself,” he offers up.

Jeremy considers. “Yeah. Maybe. That sounds nice.”

“Well,” Haywood grins, “if you need a ride, I’ll drive you there in style. How’s about it?”

And Jeremy can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. “Sounds great to me, Haywood. You want ice cream?”

“...Ice cream?”

Haywood’s got this adorable head tilt that he combines with a frown, and it does things to Jeremy’s little moron heart.

“There’s a store down the street. I thought I’d jump out and get us ice cream. Y’know, to cool down.”

“I am hot,” he admits.

Jeremy knows.

 

* * *

 

_“No,” he’s crying, smearing watercolour-pink tear tracks down the side of his face, “God, please, no...”_

* * *

 

“Don’t tell Geoff,” Gavin confides in him, during the breakfast before the mission, “but Michael told me that if anything went wrong, I needed to let his wife know.”

“Jesus, Gavin, we’re not supposed to tell each other shit like that.”

“I know,” he groans. “But, y’know… How am I s’posed to refuse a request like that? It’s impossible. I bet his wife is bloody lovely, I can’t leave her not knowing.”

“Right,” says Jeremy, who’s internally agreeing with a sense of unease.

Everything’s set - they’re fed, they have all the equipment they need at hand, and all six of them have memorised the entire plan. Get in through the roof during guard changeover, take out whoever necessary if it comes to it, clear out the compound, and shut down the laundering operation. Easy as pie.

Right.

“Dooley?”

“Yeah?” Jeremy says, his head snapping up.

Haywood’s tone is tinged with concern. He mumbles from beside him in the backseat of Jack’s getaway car: “you okay?”

“Fine,” Jeremy murmurs back, “a little nervous, that’s all.”

“Just think about Wales and you’ll be okay.”

It’s so easy to take in the man’s gentle smile and his comforting words. Something sad pretzels itself into knots in Jeremy’s gut. “Yeah,” he says, “thanks, Haywood. I was… I was thinking maybe Ireland.”

“It’s Ryan,” he says quietly.

He has to attempt to prevent the full-face blush that’s threatening him under his collar. “Okay,” he agrees, “me too, it’s Jeremy.”

“Don’t tell the others I let you say that.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Ryan.”

“No problem,” he says, with that same comforting smile. “Ireland sounds nice, man.”

Jack snaps to attention in the driver’s seat. “You guys okay if I drop you here?”

“Sure thing.”

“Cool,” he says, and pulls over. It’s a dirt track, so they have to walk up to avoid alerting anyone to their presence; the air out is thick with dust and tension.

“You’ll be in the getaway spot?”

“You know it,” the man grins, voice smooth and confident as anything. Jeremy suddenly remembers a vision of Niagara Falls from a childhood trip, and how scary the roaring of the water had seemed.

“Good luck,” he says. His throat feels sandpapered.

“Hey, you too!”

(He doesn’t need it, but he clings to the idea.)

 

* * *

  

_“Ryan...”_

* * *

 

As it turns out, their luck was spread pretty thinly already.

“Where the _fuck_ is Michael?!”

Jeremy blanches - even with adrenaline shuddering through his entire cardiovascular system, it’s still an unwelcome shock to hear Haywood swear. “He’s probably back at the warehouse, let’s go already!” he yells, and blinks prickling horror from his eyes.

The image of Geoff Ramsey’s broken body, lying in awkward, still, unnatural angles after bouncing off the compound’s fortified walls, is seared into his retinas. Though it was bad up close… It was fucking terrible from the roof. Staring down as gunfire whizzed past them, unconsciously fighting the acidic bile trying to force its way up his throat…

And then meeting Team Play Pals, either end of a wide corridor--

“What happened?” shrieks Gavin, “what’s gone wrong?!”

“After you slipped through we were ambushed, they got Geoff,” Ryan rushes, and aims around the corner to shoot. A bullet, whisker-wide in its proximity, clips his watch clean off, and it skitters across the tile heavily. Minuscule shards of glass catch the light as they’re thrown across the arid hallway.

“Fuck,” Michael bites, and keeps defending himself.

Jeremy winces with every deafening shot he lets fly. “Did you find anything?”

“Briefcase!” Gavin says jubilantly, holding it up with the hand that isn’t curled around a pistol grip. “Memory sticks, a laptop, physical files-- We think it’s from the laundering!”

“Good job,” says Ryan warmly. Down the corridor, a man falls in a far room, fine red spray announcing his departure.

British vowels curl around a smile. “Aw,” he beams, “cheers, Haywood,” and then there’s a shit-scary, revolting _crack_ as a piece of Gavin’s face comes off.

It’s not clean. It’s not surgical.

Jeremy’s never heard a human being make the noise Michael does in that moment.

“ _Gavin!!_ ” he screams, as the man’s body finishes going in the directions the brain moved it in, before everything was abruptly shut off. The thud of his empty shell against the floor is deep and indefinitely disturbing. “Gavin, _Gavin--_ Fuck! _Fuck!!_ No!”

“Michael, no, keep shooting, for god’s sake!” Ryan says. His eyes are wide, his expression rattled.

Jeremy reloads as they cover him; Michael crouches over the body, sodden blood and matted hair under his hands, and babbles in the freakishly irregular high pitches of grief. Reloading proves to be unnecessary, though, because when Jeremy raises his gun again, he realises an unnerving silence is now heavy in the air like spores.

No more gunfire.

Just anguish and dust.

Jubilation’s died with Gavin, blasted to smithereens with skull shrapnel and leaking brain matter, and when Michael pulls Gavin up into a sitting position, the man’s eyes are blank and unfocused. Shot straight through his cheekbone. No chance.

“We’ve got to leave him,” says Jeremy.

“I can’t,” Michael cries, “I _can’t_.”

“Michael, cross the corridor, we gotta go--”

He’s got Gavin’s left hand clasped in both his own, face hidden from view like he’s sustained a matching wound. Jeremy and Ryan lock concerned eyes.

“What now?” Ryan asks, urgent and low.

“You-- We need to get out of here,” Jeremy says, and he’s shaking, pistol rattling against his vest, “we need to-- _god_. We’ll have to leave him, there’s no chance we’ll make it out otherwise.”

The plaster beside Ryan’s head bursts in a puff of noise, and Jeremy jolts with fear. “Gunfire,” he calls, “Michael, please, c’mere, come with us!”

But he has to withdraw his extended arm when the shots flare up again, raining across the walkway Michael should have trodden.

“Fuck!” Ryan finally spits, and with a well-placed bullet, he knocks down one of their assailants down the way. Jeremy’s elbow is roughly grabbed as they start moving back the way they’d come. “Let’s move.”

He risks one last look over his shoulder. Michael Jones is protecting something that’s already broken.

He stands up. Wipes his eyes. A red, war-paint-like smear follows the back of his hand. “Meet you back there,” he croaks, and pries the briefcase from Gavin’s loose fingers.

Jeremy runs.

And that’s how they find themselves: _Where the fuck is Michael?!_ , and Ryan spinning on his heel in the dusty courtyard of the compound, frantic and wild, with Jeremy hot on his heel, _He’s probably back at the warehouse, let’s go already!_

It’s all going pretty badly, then, until they start sprinting to the getaway car. That’s the point at which it gets infinitely worse.

“Jack,” Ryan breathes, with no-one there to answer him.

There’s a hole in the windshield. A spiderweb with its core ripped out, the glass barely holding, and Jack Pattillo resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He could be sleeping, or possibly exasperated after a long day, but he’s neither, because he’s dead.

“They got him!” Ryan whispers, horrified, “they got him, just run--”

“No,” says Jeremy firmly, and opens the door. Jack slumps, but doesn’t fall out of the cabin. “Put him in back. We’re not leaving someone else.”

They rest Jack in the backseat - god, they got him right between the eyes, there isn’t a single scratch on his glasses - and knock out what’s left of the windshield. Ryan steps on the gas. They drive in silence. Jeremy whiteknuckles the handle of the passenger door.

“Motherfucker,” he says quietly, when they pull up to the warehouse. The getaway car comes to a trundling halt in front of a tremendously beat up 4x4, which was undoubtedly stolen from the compound garage.

“Michael?” Ryan questions.

“I hope so.”

They tentatively creep along the perimeter, guns drawn and panic spiking. The corrugated doorway grates against the concrete as they enter, and it makes them both cringe all the way to the back of their teeth. So much for a stealthy entrance.

 _You go in that side_ , Ryan signals, _and I’ll get this side._

One, two three--

_BANG._

“Who’s there?” Jeremy shouts, “come out with your hands up!”

“Haywood?”

“Oh, thank god,” says Ryan, actually deflating with relief at the sound of Michael’s voice. “Where are you, man? Are you okay?”

“Have you got the briefcase?” Jeremy adds.

“Of course I’m not fucking _okay_ ,” is the sneered response, and it echoes through the dingy building like a recurring nightmare. Jeremy finally figures out its source and spies Michael on an overhanging platform a floor above, looking out over the deserted warehouse floor. “Someone set us up. I’m sure of it. There’s no way they would have suddenly changed the guard situation for one spontaneous night, no fuckin’ way.”

“Why would we sabotage our own mission?” Ryan points out. “Come down, Michael, we can talk about this.”

“ _Talk?!_ ” he splutters. “You wanna fuckin’ talk? I just lost my best friend!”

“But we didn’t know each other before the--”

“You and Jeremy got cosy real fast, though!” Michael says thickly. Emotion’s making his voice waver. His silver handgun only shines at the barrel - the rest of its body is a rusty brown. Though it’s pointed at the two on the warehouse floor, it’s as though he forgets to hold it steady for a moment: “I was gonna… He was gonna meet my wife. I was gonna take him to meet Lindsay,” he says, and his voice is high and trembling. “I’ve never met anyone like that, not like him, never.”

“Threatening us won’t fix that,” Ryan reasons.

The handgun returns to its firm height: “no,” says Michael, “but _killing_ you might give him some justice, you fuckin’ traitors. You cowards.”

“You get the tall one and I’ll get the bald one,” says a completely different voice.

Jeremy tries not to flinch. Ryan’s head whips around in alarm; there’s someone else on the eastern balcony. She’s silhouetted in the sunlight coming down from the roof, and she’s got a bigger gun than Michael has.

“Mrs. Jones?”

“Don’t get cocky, Haywood,” she warns, “I could shoot you way faster than you could shoot _me_ , and even if I couldn’t, Michael would deal with Team Battle Buddies in the blink of an eye.”

“The briefcase,” Jeremy repeats. It’s the first thing he’s said since he walked in.

She holds it up, and it’s matte where the blood’s dried on it. “Oh, you know it, traitor.”

Ryan sighs. “We’re not traitors. For the love of god, you two, come down so we can talk about this. Something’s gone horribly wrong--”

“You’re quiet, Jeremy,” says Michael, in dangerously low tones.

“Don’t want you to shoot me.”

The shrug is almost audible, if not for the sirens that begin to phase into the foreground. The four of them take a second to digest this new information. Ultimately, though, they have to run their course:

“Maybe _you’re_ the double-agent. Jeremy Dooley, marines - the one background no-one else was from? I may be fuckin’ stupid but I’m not an _idiot_ , Cardinal,” Michael spits, and Jeremy’s breathing is shallow, and he’s trying to keep calm, but it’s so fucking hard when someone so hurt is on the other end of the trigger. “I wonder if I could take your face off from here. Gavin didn’t get to keep his, so I might aim to blow your teeth out, just to make the message clear--”

“No!” says Ryan loudly, raising his own pistol, and there’s a shot, and Jeremy shoots back, and Michael slumps, and Lindsay screams, and it’s all a huge mess, and Ryan makes a gurgling, guttural noise as he’s thrown backwards, right in front of Jeremy where he hadn’t existed a second ago--

“Michael!”

“I’m fine,” is his disembodied voice, “just my shoulder, let’s _go_ , the cops’ll pick them up.”

Jeremy can’t see behind the balcony railings, but there’s a flash of red and some metallic grating noises, and he fires once out of pure frustration, but the Jones couple make their escape with ease. A wallet tumbles onto the floor from above, having tumbled from Michael’s pocket - a stack of twenties spill out, and a beaming picture of Lindsay, and a crumpled post-it note doodle of a man with ridiculous proportions and a face that’s mostly nose.

He can’t hope to catch either Jones, not from the ground, and not when--

Not when he steps back into a puddle that hadn’t been their previously, and glances, alarmed, at the ripples the heel of his shoe produces.

“Shit, Ryan. Oh, fuck.”

His knees soak through when he falls to Ryan’s side.

“You saved me, on the roof,” Ryan says hoarsely. “That guy in blue almost got me. You didn’t even notice.”

“Too distracted by Geoff,” Jeremy rushes, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he coughs, so Jeremy pulls him into his lap, warm and wet and ebbing, “it all went to shit and we lost everyone. I’m so sorry, Jeremy.”

Jeremy barely has the energy to fight with him. “I don't know who's coming,” he says, instead, because the sirens are coming from all corners of the warehouse now. They could be either Cardinals or backup, depending on whether or not Jack managed to get a message out. It’s not looking too good, though.

“That’s okay. I won’t be around to find out, I don’t think.”

“Don’t say that,” Jeremy says. It’s the first thing Ryan’s said where he doesn’t sound completely devastated. His eyes are itching, and he rubs them, trying to scrub the brown out, before smoothing down Ryan’s hair, because there’s no stopping Ryan’s tears now. “Jesus. _Fuck_. Ryan, I’m so fucking _sorry_.”

“Michael shot me.”

“But I was the double-agent,” Jeremy whispers. “It was me. _I_ was the traitor.”

Ryan freezes up.

For a second, Jeremy thinks he might be dead already - he doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t search with those blue, blue eyes for answers that wouldn’t lay him to rest anyway. But then all his breath comes out at once. “No,” he’s crying, smearing watercolour-pink tear tracks down the side of his face, “God, please, no...”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and Ryan doesn’t push him away, he clings. “We were bringing in refugees… They’re fleeing _war_ , Ryan, I couldn’t leave them. I couldn’t do nothing. It was just a security test, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, we just needed to break in and get decoys and I’d feed back the info. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. You and me, we weren’t--”

But they are, and it did. Ryan just cries and holds him close, smearing blood over their faces and pushing their foreheads together - maybe they could become one broken unit if they hold each other close enough.

He’s unable to look at him. He’s unable to look _away_. They stare at each other, eyes resting on the other by default, in a sweet observation that’s been there from the moment they met. Jeremy's brain is saying _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , but his heart’s beating out a louder message, aching with every thump of _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_. It’s so hard. He’ll never feel worse than he does at this moment.

Jeremy feels Ryan's sweat and hears helicopter blades and tries to make a decision.

From his lap, Ryan makes it for them - he raises Jeremy’s pistol, which saved him earlier, and loosely pushes it into the crook of Jeremy’s neck.

“Do you think you’ll see Ireland?” he mumbles.

Jeremy flicks off the safety and angles the gun behind his head, so that it’ll pass through both of them. “I think I’ll taste ice cream,” he says.

The door flies open and lets the light in. Ryan squeezes his free hand with a grip so strong it’s numb instead of agonising, and Jeremy whispers to him over warnings and military terminology.

Living legends, as it were, remained a light-hearted dream.

 

* * *

 

In a bullet-riddled and deserted hallway, a man sits up against the wall.

There’s nothing behind his eyes anymore - and to be honest, there’s very little remaining of one of his eyes at all. But on the left hand resting in his lap is a heartbreak-smeared wedding ring, where gold streaks lie under the red.

The inside is engraved. Someone’s added extra scratches to complete the union.

 

 **MJ + LT** \+ GF.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite proud of this. There's a shitload of foreshadowing throughout, so if you enjoyed, it might be worth a re-read at some point. Let me know what you picked up on! 
> 
> if you want more heist-gone-wrong, this is a Reservoir Dogs AU.
> 
> I'm on pillowfort.io under 'futureboy', and tumblr under 'futureboy-ao3' and 'futureboy' - if you liked this, then kudos, comments, and follows/subs are always appreciated.


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